


Pinto High School AU Trilogy, Part 2 - Most Likely to Succeed

by htebazytook



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Romance, Slash, Smut, lolzy '90's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-26
Updated: 2010-02-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 16:26:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows the high school AU I wrote, Stereotypical.  There is just no excuse for this.  A little angsty with a generous coating of smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pinto High School AU Trilogy, Part 2 - Most Likely to Succeed

**Title:** Most Likely to Succeed  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:** <—  
 **Pairing:** Zach/Chris  
 **Author's Notes:** Follows the high school AU I wrote, Stereotypical. There is just no excuse for this. A little angsty with a generous coating of smut.

 

 

  


*

There isn't much time.

It's okay, though. Chris has done it before. And anyway, Zach's probably been horny since they'd had to cut their lunchbreak short. His hand tightens at the back of Chris's head, not so much pulling his hair as keeping him down. Chris protests around the cock in his mouth but this only seems to encourage him. Zach thrusts as much as he's able to and Chris can only try to relax his throat to accommodate Zach's urgency, lets out another indistinct humming sound that gets Zach to moan, tensed leg muscles shaking with impending orgasm, with a futile effort to keep still.

Chris backs off for a minute to catch his breath. "How much time— _urghf_." He tries to pry Zach's hand away but it's awkward from this angle, grumbles and lets Zach thrust into his mouth.

"Just fucking suck me, Chris—ahhhh, fuck—seriously, there's going to be an accident if you don't stop fucking around."

Okay, Chris is just annoyed now, and that's his main source of inspiration as he sucks harder and bobs his head and twists against Zach's desperately scrabbling hands, isn't quite sure if he's attempting to shake them off or leaning into the little sparks of pain.

Zach groans loudly and holds Chris's head down on his cock and curses and comes. Chris swallows because he basically has to, gasps for air as soon as Zach's grip on him slackens.

A car horn blares from behind them and Chris jumps and hits his head on the steering wheel. " _Ow_. God . . ."

"Hey, get back in your own seat, already," Zach says, tucking himself hurriedly back into his jeans and releasing the brake pedal before shoving Chris away.

Chris fixes his seatbelt, glares at Zach in the rearview mirror. "Remind me why I put up with this, again?"

Zach waves it off, and he really does look so thoroughly happy and sated that Chris can't stay angry for long. "'Cause your turn will come. Um, in a manner of speaking," he grins.

Chris shakes his head to hide his smile. "Right. So how long was it green before you—?"

"Heh. You'd be pissed if I told you. But it's okay—there was nobody behind me until that mood shattering, horn happy asshole showed up."

"You mean the one that's tailgating us?"

"That's what I said."

"And is passing us now?"

"Yeah, I— _hey_. You know, it's not actually necessary to punch me every time you see a Beetle."

"Um, hell yes it is. It's making a comeback."

"Just because they're remaking them now is no excuse to relive the '70's or whatever. I mean, why would you want to?"

"'60's. '50's even. Hey, this is my street! Wake up, man."

"Oh whatever. I blame your aptitude for fellatio."

"Mm." Chris gathers up his bag, leans over for a kiss before getting out of the car. "See you tomorrow."

"See ya."

*

Chris is pretty sure the idiots at the coffee shop down the street gave him decaf by accident—and I mean, what the fuck is the point of decaf coffee anyway?—because when the bell rings it jolts Chris out of a depressingly mindless daydream involving Raskolnikov waxing poetic on the topic of cirrostratus clouds and this bizarrely crushing regret that he'd had cereal instead of bacon this morning. Chris rolls his eyes at himself and heaves his bag over his shoulder, much too sleepy to care about beating the rest of the class out to the hallway.

He feels like a zombie on his way to English, staring straight ahead and trying to blink himself into consciousness. So like a zombie that it barely even registers that he is nearing Zach's locker, or maybe that's just because of Chris's recent over-exposure to the sound of his voice. He changes lanes in the hallway and jumps nimbly out of the way of a particularly harried student before he makes it to Zach. He almost smiles at him before he remembers himself, tries to recover in time to communicate exasperation. There are these gleeful, expectant looks on Zach's friend's faces, but Chris pays them no mind, just meets Zach's eyes and smirks.

"Gentlemen," Chris nods, turns on his heel to escape and waits for Zach's move.

Zach seizes his shoulder to stop him, gets close enough for Chris to hear him over the bustle of the hallway: "What, are you hungry for more?" And his friends snicker in the background.

"Fuck you."

"You first," Zach insists, pushes Chris on his way.

*

Chris takes his time packing up after band, runs the swab through his clarinet more times than is strictly necessary while he listens to everyone else scamper off to lunch. The last straggler leaves and the door swings shut, and the sound fills Chris with anticipation in an instant. He moves quickly through the empty room, glances down the hallway just to make sure no one's around before he pushes in the bathroom door.

Solid heat sneaks up behind him, strong arms and Zach's mouth at his ear. "Took your time," he says, nibbles at the lobe.

Chris shivers, leans back into him. "I would have been here sooner if everyone and their mother didn't need to hang around and giggle about Bill Clinton's private life at every available opportunity." Zach laughs, trails his hands up Chris's sides and chest and arms tantalizingly. "I _wanted_ to be here sooner."

Chris can feel Zach smile against the back of his neck before he reaches over to lock the bathroom door and pushes Chris up against a cool, tiled wall. "Oh yeah? Tell me."

Zach is grinding into him now and Chris is just as hard, reaches back to hold onto Zach's hips. "You sounded so good today on the Grainger," Chris says.

Zach snorts, and it's weirdly endearing, and that sends another feeling loose in Chris along with all that directionless desire. "Thanks," Zach mutters, doesn't believe him. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. Got bored during that thing where we just play tutti and he was yelling at the flutes about tuning. Watched you. Your hands are so . . . _ah_."

Zach's kissing Chris's neck now. "Words, please," he says, captures Chris's wrists together and presses them into the small of his back, twisting until Chris gasps, seems unable to stop grinding his cock against Chris's ass.

"Uhhhh. Sensual." And Zach's grip tightens impossibly more. " _Strong_."

Zach shoves him harder into the wall. "Lame. You can do better than that. In fact you'll have to if you want me to jerk you off."

Chris's breathing speeds up. "Capable. Sinewy. Graceful, dexterous, artistic . . ."

Zach bites at the side of Chris's neck and Chris moans and tilts into it, cock jumping to attention when Zach sucks at the spot and laves it with his tongue. "Yeah yeah yeah, but what do you want, Chris?"

"Want them on me."

"Is that so?" Zach asks breathlessly, hands already scrambling for Chris's belt

"Yeah. Please. Please just touch me . . ."

Zach's hand wraps around Chris's cock, starts jerking him hard and fast and with intent, grinding harder into him, his other hand now in a death grip around Chris's wrists. Chris throws his head back, going so weak with pleasure that his knees threaten to give out but Zach catches him, dots frantic kisses over Chris's neck and shoulders and speaks directly into his ear: "Come for me, Chris," and Chris obeys with an echoing shout and collapses against the wall, mind overrun with the heat of his body and Zach's body and the ice of the tiles. He gets his hands free, spins around to crush their mouths together and presses against Zach's straining cock through his jeans until he finds release.

*

Chris is shockingly awake for the rest of his classes, no matter that he'd had to skip lunch in order to clean himself up. But by the time the final bell rings his fatigue has returned, clearly evident in the amount of time it takes him to get to his locker, cursing his caffeine addiction with every weighted step. He stares at the assortment of books and superfluous, overflowing folders and can't comprehend which ones he needs in order to do his homework, doesn't really give a shit about it anyway and just clicks the locker closed again, makes his way unhurriedly out the side door.

I mean, he's already taken the SATs—what are they gonna do? Revoke his scores based on a couple of below average math tests in the last nine weeks? It's not like _they_ care about his ability to plot inverse functions, either.

Chris doesn't have to wait long in the coffee shop. In fact his latte is barely cool enough to sip when Zach saunters in, car keys twirling and jangling, a shiny contrast with his all-black ensemble, and just generally drawing the attention of the other patrons. He seems to spend as much time working on ways to garner attention as Chris spends on finding ways to turn invisible. Zach smiles when he sees him, saunters over to sit next to Chris on the overstuffed couch.

" _Hey_ , Chris. Ready?" And Zach's arm hooks around Chris's elbow, urges him upright.

Chris feels a rush of fondness and sips his coffee to temper it, follows Zach out to his car. It's okay to make friends, but sooner or later . . .

"So," Zach says. "It looks like I'm finally gonna blow this popsicle stand."

Chris laughs. "You're the lamest bully ever. Just so you know"

They cross the street.

"So, wait, you're really gonna graduate?" Chris asks.

Zach nods as he unlocks the car. "Looks like it."

"Good. I mean, it's good for you to—"

"Yep. Aware of that. Now buckle up, Chris. It's the law, you know."

"Hold on, jeez. I'm putting my coffee in the thing so I don't spill on your precious upholstery and make you cry or whatever."

Zach turns on the radio. "It's weird how nobody else from school ever goes to that place," Zach says once they're on the road.

Chris snuggles down into his seat, too tired to reach for his drink. Way too tired to change the radio station. Sighs. "Can you just turn it to NPR or something? They have the news thing on right now."

Zach laughs, rolls smoothly to a stop at a red light. Chris can't understand why Zach modifies his normally flashy, impatient driving whenever he's taking Chris home. "Are you saying you don't wanna be my lover? Because, I mean, you gotta get with my friends to make it last for ever since friendship never ends . . ."

Chris snorts. "Get with your friends? Um, no thank you."

"Oh, yeah. Didn't I tell you? We're gonna corner you one of these days and like gang bang you."

Chris laughs, summons the energy to drink his now comfortably cooled off coffee. "You just wanna fuck Karl."

"Who the fuck doesn't?"

"Mm," Chris says. "It's the accent. Even when he's explaining what a fag I am and like cracking his knuckles it's kinda hot."

"Mm. Hey!" And Zach swats Chris's hand away from the radio controls. "My car, my music."

"And my being your guest doesn't count for anything?"

"Uh, not when Scary, Baby, Ginger, Posh and Sporty are involved."

Chris snickers. "You are so gay it's not even funny. Seriously."

They fall into silence, Wannabe now so loud that Chris imagines the car doors are shaking. He looks over to find Zach mouthing along to the song, and not only the chorus which Chris can at least recognize, but the weird part in the middle where they talk. And Chris has severe issues with not smiling at every stupid, borderline girly thing Zach does, so he makes conversation instead: "I just don't understand how you can get so into this crap when I've heard you go on and on about, like, Bach's use of secondary dominants."

Zach shrugs, blushing. How is it that he's shyer than Chris? "Dude, I just like music."

"Yeah yeah. Not 'N Sync though, right?"

"Are you kidding? They're a bunch of assholes."

"Justin _Timberlake_ ," Chris says in disgust.

"Ew, exactly. No, Backstreet Boys all the way. Like. Duh."

"Mm. Brian."

"Mm."

*

The next day Chris makes sure to get his morning coffee, is sipping happily and walking over to the school when someone honks at him and Chris glances up just in time to watch Zach's car zip past. But Zach gets stuck in the morning congestion into school so Chris manages to catch up with him, knocks on his window.

Zach rolls it down, gives Chris a once over. "How much?"

Chris grins. "Hmm, that depends. You're not into the kinky stuff, are you?"

Zach pretends to think about it, meets Chris's eyes in this sneaky feline way he has, sends Chris's heart racing all of a sudden. " _That_ depends on what you consider kinky, I guess."

Chris leans a little closer, lowers his voice: "Well . . . I could maybe make an exception in your case."

*

"Oh, God . . ."

"How close are you, Zach?"

" _God._ "

Chris sighs. "That isn't a very helpful response, you know. Ah _fuck_ you're tight," he says, hands stilling Zach's twitching hips so he can thrust in deeper.

"God, Chris. Ohgodohgodohgod . . ."

Chris snaps his hips, has to close his eyes against the feeling, against Zach's strangled shout. "Make up your mind. And keep _still_ . . ."

Zach's hands are tangled up in a firmly knotted seat belt,, smooshed into the cramped backseat next to Chris's heavy bag. Chris had thrown it there the second the last reluctant student had gone inside for first period. And had thrown Zach down soon thereafter.

"Why did you have to park so far away, anyway?" Chris asks, blood rushing at a fever pitch now and persuading him to match his thrusts to his heartbeat.

"Ah shiiiiiit like that. Chris. Oh God like that . . ."

"I mean, jeez, I'm gonna be late for an English test if you don't hurry the fuck up and come," Chris says into Zach's hair, a wave of fragrant shampoo stealing his attention, tongue hopelessly loosened by how close he is to orgasm: "You like my cock, don't you, Zach? You like being held down and fucked like this. Fuck, feels so good, Zach. You feel amazing. Do you like it?"

Zach nods frantically, trying to rub his erection into the seat cushion for some much needed friction. "God yes . . ."

"Gonna come?"

" _Chris_."

" _Zach_ ," Chris groans, spilling into him and seeing stars. Reaches up to untie Zach's hands so he can give himself the couple of strokes he needs before he comes too.

*

Chris is absorbed in his book when Zach picks him up from the coffee shop later and starts telling him a story about something that had happened back in the trumpet section. Chris is distracted, though, still contemplating his book and planning the rest of his day in his head, looks idly out the window and watches for oncoming traffic at the lights. There's the notable absence of Girl Power in the car—in fact, Chris thinks he can hear Terry Gross murmuring softly in the background. It's comforting.

"How did the test go?" Zach asks.

Chris shrugs. "It was fine. I mean, I had already read it before, so."

"Wait, was it a practice exam?"

"Yeah. But it was from Leaves of Grass."

"Ah."

Chris laughs. "Somehow I never pegged you for a Whitman fan," he says, looks out the window again.

"Why not?" Zach sounds mildly hurt, but Chris isn't looking at him so it's hard to tell.

"Well, you know. 'Whosoever would be a man must be a nonconformist' and all that."

"Hm."

They listen to the news for it while, all this hype over Windows 98. It was going to be _revolutionary_ or something, but even so, Chris wishes they'd get to like all that nuclear testing going on on the subcontinent . . .

"I mean," Zach says, "I'm more of a _survivalist_ than a conformist. And you, ha, well, you just take that quote to the extreme, don't you?"

"If by being myself you mean I'm taking it to the extreme, then yeah, I guess so."

Zach sighs. "Sorry. Just making small talk."

"It's cool. Whatever."

Sometimes Zach's attentiveness can be annoying, and sometimes, Chris feels like he needs to explain what graduating actually means to him. Zach can't roam the halls forever, and Chris has _plans_ and _goals_ and direction. But Zach can't always appreciate that, has too much trouble looking ahead of the present.

Chris continues looking out the window, not really in the mood to chat. When Zach pulls up to his house he unbuckles his seat belt so he can lean out the window and squint at— "Oh my God, I think I see mail. Ugh, it better be here. Thanks for the ride."

Chris moves to open that door but Zach pulls him back, turns Chris's head to face him and Chris feels a little guilty for not paying attention, kisses him lingeringly. Ignores Zach's anxious expression and makes a beeline for the mailbox.

*

Chris has been watching Zach since the second he walked into the band room. Today he was wearing normal, _blue_ jeans and a flimsy white T-shirt that had been driving Chris to distraction from afar all day. He'd skipped breakfast, though, and was much too hungry to skip lunch, so he situates himself near the brass lockers and waits.

The other trumpet players come in before Zach does, and Chris had been making sure to roll his eyes and throw them dirty looks whenever they'd fucked something up during reversal, so they waste no time in closing in around Chris and offering badly thought out taunts and little shoves.

They part magically for Zach and Chris is mildly annoyed that he has to look inconvenienced while Zach gets to grin and stare him down like he's his prey. At least Chris doesn't have to suppress a shiver to keep in character.

Chris sighs. "I wasn't counting on this."

Zach raises his eyebrows. "Counting on . . . oh, okay. Nice."

Chris shrugs, gets up in Zach's personal space and can barely hear the sarcastic comments from the others. "Fuck. You," he enunciates.

Zach licks his lips. "No, fuck _you_."

*

Zach's waiting at Chris's locker when Chris ditches math, eager wandering hands wasting no time in distracting Chris from figuring out which books he needs to take home . . .

"Hey, cut it out, Zach, I've gotta—"

Zach growls and slams Chris's locker closed, slams him up against it and plunges his tongue into Chris's mouth for a good, dizzying minute. "No. I want you _now_."

"Yeahokaylet'sgo," Chris says eloquently, lets Zach take him by the hand and lead him outside to his car.

It all happens pretty quickly. I mean, Zach is becoming reasonably talented in the field of getting Chris's pants off in record time, has got Chris straddling him and is rubbing their cocks together while Chris busies himself with tasting Zach's skin, licking down his chest and pulling his T shirt aside, inexplicably thrown it off by Zach's lack of solid black. Zach retrieves the lube stashed permanently in the backseat of his car, slicks his fingers and works them into Chris.

" _Ah shit_."

"You aren't relaxing, Chris. Come on, let me in, baby . . ."

And Chris has been simmering in arousal for practically the entire day, finds himself groaning and pushing down and desperate for it. "Fuck me," he whines into the fabric of Zach's shirt, soft and laundry-scented.

Zach glances at his watch. "Yeah, I'd better since it's almost 2:30, huh?"

Chris's eyes widen. "Um, yeah." Chris snatches up the lube and squirts a generous amount onto Zach's cock, spreads it out with his hands and kisses him before raising his hips and lining Zach up to his entrance.

Zach stares obsessively at Chris's face as he sinks down onto him, groans and grabs Chris's hips and thrusts. Chris sets a breakneck pace, exhilarating in the pleasure and pain and fear of discovery, in the sound of his Zach's voice moaning louder and louder until they both come all too soon and Zach just continues to stare into Chris's eyes.

After they've cleaned up and are en route, Chris is startled out of his post-coital dozing by Zach's hand slipping into Chris's at a stop sign. Chris doesn't say anything, studies the glove compartment and rubs his thumb over the back of Zach's hand because . . . he feels bad for him? Chris might just feel bad for himself. Or feel bad about _regretting_ his impending freedom from high school after so many years of concentrated hatred for it.

He's never had so much trouble with _words_.

Zach turns on the radio and Celine Dion begins to wail from the speakers. They both groan.

"Okay, yeah, you can turn it to NPR," Zach says.

Chris does so. "You know, I really don't understand why that movie was so popular. I mean, it was like the highest grossing of all time or something ridiculous, wasn't it? I mean, Leo. But still."

"Yeah. I doubt that anything will ever beat it at the box office." Zach pauses. "But still. _Leo_."

"Mm."

Zach turns onto Chris's street, parks and still hasn't let go of his hand. Chris doesn't exactly mind—he dreads checking the mail on his way in, anymore. "Maybe the new Star Wars movies will beat it," Zach says.

"Oh, right. Forgot about those."

". . . Um, how is that even possible?"

Chris shrugs. "Shut up. I'm more into Star Trek, really—hey, Zach? I said _shut up_."

Zach's eyebrows can't climb any higher. "I'm fucking a . . . a Trekkie. Like, for real."

Chris rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Remind me to make you watch the Original Series sometime. Heh, actually, you know, you look kind of like . . . okay, seriously, you need to _stop_ giving me that look if you expect me to suck you off in the near future."

Zach laughs. "Chill out, I'm just messing with you." His hand is warm and sweating in Chris's and now they're just sitting in his parked car _gawking_ at each other and holding hands and Chris can't look away and sometimes he thinks Zach is the only one he ever really _looks_ at. It's weirdly grounding whenever their eyes meet. "Did you, uh, hear back from Berkeley yet?"

"No. Well, I mean, I still have to check today's mail. So. Yeah. I'd better go and, like, do that now. Yeah." He pulls his hand away and kisses Zach swiftly. "Bye."

"Yeah. See ya."

*

The next day Chris is swamped with overdue homework. It's his own fault, really, or at least his libido's. But in any case he doesn't see Zach in the hallway or catch him before band or lunch. It's okay, though—Zach picks him up at the coffee shop like always without being asked.

But just as they're about to walk out the door Chris spots a gaggle of percussionists walking down the street like they're badasses, ducks back into the shop and hides behind Zach.

Zach laughs. "Oh come on, people don't pay attention. They probably wouldn't even have noticed us."

"Yeah, I know. But it doesn't hurt to take precautions."

Zach laughs again when the coast is clear and they make a break for his car. Chris keeps shushing him until they're safely inside, which Zach finds hilarious. "Dude. It's not like we're being hounded by crazy paparazzi stalkers with cameras and shit, you know."

"We aren't?" Chris says sarcastically.

Zach laughs. " _Clearly_ pictures of us walking around getting coffee are in high demand."

They descend into a comfortable silence that Chris _really_ wants to preserve, he really does, but there's only so long he can bite his tongue.

"I got into Berkeley," he blurts.

Zach stiffens, barely noticeable except that Chris can read his body language more easily than any book these days. "Oh. Good."

"Zach . . ." Zach just stares ahead at the road. "Zach," Chris tries again. "You're going to graduate this year. There's still time to apply to like—"

"Okay, seriously, do I _look_ like Eliza Doolittle to you?" Zach explodes.

Chris knows it won't do any good, but he just can't help himself: "A little bit, around the eyes." And it does get a laugh out of him, at least.

"Sorry. I just . . . you know, I just don't want to spend the money when I don't even have any clue about what the fuck I'm gonna do with my life. You know?"

Chris used to excel at snotty rants about people who didn't have their shit together, or who were lazy or immature or all of the above. How is it that Zach is one of these people? How is it that Chris can even stand his company despite that? I mean, it's because of him that Chris never knows what to say. They are at a stop sign and Zach is looking at him now and Chris can't understand why the look on his face will continue to matter hours afterward or why he now gives precedence to Zach's happiness or approval or company. What the fuck had happened to lone wolf Chris and why was it that he couldn't read _anything_ anymore without looking forward to talking with Zach about it later? I mean, talking? With people?

Apparently Chris doesn't have it all figured out either, and it really sucks to realize that after so much careful, rational planning for his future.

Zach pulls up to Chris's house, won't look at him. "So, when are you gonna, like . . . ?"

"I. That's pretty far off, still."

"Yeah." Zach's eyes are big and brown and fixed on him, indecipherable. Chris hates whatever it is that Zach does to him to make him lose his ability to speak. He stumbles over himself to get out of the car.

*

Chris waits for him at the brass lockers after band, hasn't had any contact with Zach all day aside from a staring contest during the slow movement of the Grainger in rehearsal.

Zach approaches, finally, and he's surrounded by other trumpet players but it doesn't matter—he seems to have lost the energy for a performance, just takes Chris by the arm and leads him out into the hallway without another word. The idiots around them don't appear to notice any change. In fact, Chris has trouble remembering they're even there whenever Zach touches him.

They face one another. Chris licks his lips nervously.

"Do you wanna get lunch now? I mean, like, actual lunch. At a table. With food?" Zach asks, in such a serious tone of voice that Chris wants to laugh.

"But what if people—"

Zach sighs, pulls him too close in the not exactly abandoned hallway. "Now you're just pissing on the memory of Walt Whitman."

"I'm—? Oh. Ha." Chris stops resisting and lets his arms wind around Zach's neck. Knows they're about to kiss and feels grateful instead of anxious for once. "You're clever."

*


End file.
